“Christ. What did you just say? The female victim wasn’t really dead? Did I hear that correctly?”
“Yup. Her name is Joan Murphy and she’s on the way to Saint Francis. I’d like to be on the case.”
Brady said, “Let me see who caught it last night.”
Conklin looked out the window, watching the traffic on the freeway as Brady’s fingers tapped on the keyboard.
“Okay. Okay,” Brady said. “Summing it up here, it seems like it was a madhouse in the morgue last night. There was a car crash with three fatalities. Then, this case came in. It started with a 911 call from the Warwick Hotel. A housekeeper went into room 321 to turn down the bed and found two dead bodies in it.”
Conklin muttered, “Holy shit.”
Brady continued his summary.
“Sergeant Chi got a search warrant and met Detectives Sackowitz and Linden at the hotel. Room three twenty-one was registered to Joan Murphy, who lives locally, over in Seacliff. Murphy’s body was completely naked on the bed. She had a gunshot wound to the right shoulder and another that had grazed her hip. She was covered with blood and had no detectable vital signs. Hear that, Conklin? Not breathing. No heartbeat.”
“Unreal,” said Conklin. “Keep going.”
Brady said, “Continuing. The male victim is in the morgue and isn’t talking or breathing. He’s white, in his thirties, and was also found naked and lying on top of the female. There was no wallet, no ID to be found. He was wearing a wedding band. The male vic took three shots, two to the back, one in the left arm. The murder weapon wasn’t found.”
Brady took a slug of coffee and then went on.
“Sackowitz and Linden waited for the wagon to arrive. ME techs pronounced both victims DOA. Sac and Linden started a canvass in the hotel. They’ll look at surveillance video and do the interviews, et cetera, but I agree with you that they could use help.”
Conklin said, “Good to hear that. My desk is clean, Brady. Use me.”
Brady said, “I don’t have anyone free to partner up with you.”
“It’s just for a few days, Lieu.”
Brady said, “Should be okay, I’m thinkin’, since Joan Murphy can probably ID the doer. I’m betting the shooter was the wife of the John Doe. Stay on Murphy and get her story.”
Brady lifted his icy blue eyes from the computer and turned them on Conklin.
“We’re going to need you to use your famous charm when you interview Miss Murphy, Conklin. This is a sticky situation. We don’t want her to sue the city for taking her to the morgue before her time.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Conklin went back to his desk and downloaded the notes from Sac and Linden. Then he called Claire’s office, leaving a message with her receptionist.
He said, “Greg, tell Dr. Washburn I’m on the case. I want to see the John Doe, ASAP.”
Chapter 8
Conklin made the short walk from the back exit from the Hall of Justice lobby, along the breezeway to the ME’s office in under two minutes. He was thinking about this murky case of a dead woman who was not actually dead,
and a John Doe who was gunned down in flagrante delicto.
Conklin reviewed Sackowitz’s case notes one more time. He’d written that no weapon had been found at the scene of the crime and that the John Doe’s wallet was missing. He and Linden were still working the hotel angle, trying to get an ID on the dead man.
If they could figure out who the John Doe was, they might be able to learn why he was shot in the first place.
Was the John Doe the target? That would make Joan Murphy a victim of circumstance. And why hadn’t the shooter finished off Joan Murphy? She had witnessed the crime, after all. Had the shooter assumed that she was dead?
Could be.
According to the reports, she’d been covered with blood, both hers and the John Doe’s. Her muscles had gone rigid. Her breathing and pulse had hardly been there, and were so delicate that they’d become undetectable. Apparently, neither the cops nor the ME techs had ever seen anything like this before, and Murphy’s deathlike state had fooled them all. How scary was that?
Conklin pulled open the double glass doors to the ME’s office as another question popped into his head. Why hadn’t anyone heard the shots?